


in death, at the end of the world

by perennials



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, character death is technically only cos you need to die to reincarnate u feel me, it's not very terrible, pleas give this a chance my crops are dying, soulmates vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: "Beautiful, you say?"“Your hair. It's the color of the moon.”-From this life, to the next, to the next, he'll chase you for as long as it takes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [en la muerte, en el fin del mundo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754684) by [Ice__Daddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice__Daddy/pseuds/Ice__Daddy)



> me: ew i hate writing long fics. so much effort. gross. i'll stick to my 2k babies  
> yuri on ice: hello  
> me: ok so have you heard of reincarnation aus cos
> 
> also, HAPPY NEW YEAR

_This is how the story starts:_

 

_There are two boys. There is a castle of turrets and towers. There is a promise, a curse, a blade, sharp as night._

 

_Three hundred years, the oracle crows. Three hundred years, five lifetimes, a distance no soul can cross._

 

_This is how the first story ends:_

 

_One boy vanishes._

 

_The other remembers everything._

 

 

  
_I. the traveler and the stranger_

 

The first time Viktor remembers, it is a breezy Wednesday afternoon, and his feet are glued to the cobblestone path.

 

The man that steps out onto the street has a shock of midnight-dark hair, a strong, steady gaze, and lips redder than roses. He looms over Viktor, has to duck as he steps out of the carriage and the horses whinny a soulful goodbye, and the buttoned coat that hugs his torso looks posh and expensive. But there’s no mistaking the familiar slant to his expression, or the apologetic smile he gives the coachman as he digs through his coat pockets for runaway coins.

 

 _Yuuri_ , a voice in his head whispers. _Yuuri._ A beautiful name for a beautiful face.

 

When the carriage finally pulls away Yuuri turns, notices Viktor staring at him, and takes a step forward.

 

“May I help you?”

 

Viktor’s been wandering for two decades by now, but those words sound more like home than anything he’s ever encountered.

 

“No, I just, I was wondering— have we met before somewhere?” he fumbles over his words, usual eloquence lost in the face of this strange, dream-like apparition. Viktor’s eyes flit down to Yuuri’s hands, to the bouquet of blue flowers, to the _flowers_ —

 

Yuuri frowns. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you. Surely I would remember someone with such lovely hair. It's the color of the moon! Is there a particular encounter that has slipped my mind, perhaps?”

 

 _You wove golden flowers into my hair and called me your prince once._ “No, I must be mistaken,” Viktor says, false cheer making his words sound sharper than he means for them to be.

 

The silence between them could snap a brick in half.

 

“Well, then, good-day to you.” Yuuri inclines his head and starts down the street.

 

Viktor watches him go, not caring that his hands are beginning to freeze from where they’re wrung together behind his back.

 

_He’s happy. He’s alive. It’s fine._

 

Right before Yuuri disappears around the bend, Viktor calls out, half out of panic, half because the need to hear that voice again outweighs the embarrassment of shouting down a crowded street, “those are beautiful flowers.”

 

Yuuri cracks a small, sad smile, though Viktor doesn’t see it.

 

“Thank you. They’re for a lover.”

 

Some thirty, forty years later, Viktor chances upon an article in the newspaper. It details the rise and fall of the great pianist Katsuki Yuuri, from his first performance for the Royal Court at seven to his brief stint with ice skating, the slump he fell into after his wife passed from smallpox, and how he eventually wasted away in his bedroom, surrounded by paintings of dead people. This all happened weeks, months ago.

 

He goes out the next day, and leaves forget-me-nots at his grave.

 

 

 

_II. the breakable boy and the breaking boy_

 

The next time they are fifteen and frivolous and street-sturdy, racing each other down back alleys and through bustling marketplaces in the daytime, crawling under open stacks of hay and sleeping with the company of stars at night.

 

Friendships here are far and few in-between, those that persist fueled by the blood from another’s veins, those that fall apart warping into dangerous games of give-and-take. The kids who can, strike deals with street vendors and stable boys that cough up bruised apples and half-loaves of bread in exchange for a secret or two. Those that can’t either steal, or starve.

 

In this world, Viktor and Yuuri are the sons of no one. They are runaways, fleeing from reality’s cold embrace and seeking warmth in each other’s thin arms. Each day is an adventure, a carnival ride with broken seat belts where the fee is your life and the big man at the ticketing booth usually forgets to collect your tickets.

 

Viktor can count his important things on one hand: his dirt-brown satchel, the winter coat he snatched from a snot-nosed brat last fall, Yuuri.

 

Viktor can count the things he can’t afford to lose on one finger: Yuuri.

 

At fifteen, Viktor has a kick that can rival most adults’ in sheer power. He possesses a dancer’s grace, but fights hard and heavy until his knuckles are raw and his breath comes short and jagged, all flying fists and silvery hair like bolts of lightning.

 

It's not that he likes to hurt people. But people like to hurt ~~Yuuri~~ them.

 

So he fights. He fights and they call him _weakling, fool, disgusting_ , and he loses some, wins some, but always, always, they leave Yuuri alone, and everything is okay.

 

Somehow, Yuuri always knows when he slips out. Viktor is good at fighting and dancing and staying alive, but he is not good at fooling boys with glass hearts and steely eyes.

 

“You're leaving again?” Yuuri murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand. The straw pile creaks with the shift of weight.

 

“I just wanted to go out and look at the stars for a bit,” Viktor says lightly.

 

They both know it's a lie. London is cold at night this time of the year, far too cold for recreational stargazing or anything of the sort. But Yuuri lets it go, like he always does. “Sure. Come back soon, okay?” His voice is trusting, but firm. It says _come back for sure or I'll go out and drag you in myself._

 

(But that's something they can't have happen. Yuuri does not fight with fists and fury, Yuuri fights with wits and words. It's effective in high court, not in the streets.)

 

Viktor stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his coat and tucks his chin under the collar. “Of course.” He smiles, pretty and luminescent in the moonlight.

 

As usual, he ducks under the tattered flap of cloth covering the open entrance, moving like a specter. As usual, Yuuri whispers, _I love you._

 

As usual, Viktor hears nothing.

 

//

 

It is no surprise that something goes wrong, really. See, Viktor tries his best to keep Yuuri under wraps, layer upon layer of silk sheets in bright, fluorescent colors, but Yuuri is no small-town boy. No one would be content living under the shadow of the sun. They'd want to come out and touch it.

 

“It’s boring,” he says after a week, tugging on a few strands of silvery hair. “And unfair. You do all the work. I just lie around and wait.”

 

They're sitting on the edge of the narrow straw cot, bumping shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.

 

“What, are you saying _I'm_ boring?” Viktor raises an eyebrow in mock disbelief.

 

“No, you're beautiful.” Yuuri smiles innocently and kisses his cheek. “But this hideout is boring.”

 

Viktor tries not to blush, and fails dramatically. He goes red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Shhh, you smooth little rascal,” he gets out through a shaky laugh, ruffling Yuuri’s hair until it's a haphazard, convoluted mess.

 

To his credit, Yuuri lets him do it. His hair’s been growing out again, and they haven't managed to sneak into a salon since that one escapade with the piglet a few months ago, so it's been getting progressively longer. Now it puffs up just under his ears, falls easily to cover the nape of his neck so when Viktor curls his hands there he gets a fistful of soft black hair. It makes kissing Yuuri that much nicer; he can't really complain.

 

Yuuri nudges him gently. “But seriously, Viktor.” The way he says his name makes Viktor’s chest burn with a painful mixture of nostalgia and warmth. “I'm not something to be protected, y’know?”

 

Viktor’s smile drops. _Yuuri, Yuuri, you don’t remember what happened last time. The first time._ He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

 

“Maybe I don’t know.” He drops his gaze to the floor, traces the arch of Yuuri’s socked feet, the curve of his bent knees, the dirt-colored fabric of his too-big trousers bunched around his waist. Then further up, up, up, over his threadbare shirt and beaten leather jacket, following the line of his shoulders to his neck. When he gets to Yuuri’s face Viktor stutters, and tries not to linger on every soft feature. He fails.

 

“Don’t be such a kid,” Yuuri laughs, but there’s concern flickering in his eyes. “Either you know, or you don’t.”

 

“I’m older than you,” Viktor mumbles.

 

Yuuri lets his head drop onto Viktor’s shoulder.

 

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

 

And for a moment Viktor is calm waters again.

 

He goes out that night, and he goes out, and he doesn’t come back.

 

//

 

Or, rather, Viktor means to come back. But things happen. He gets sidetracked, as fifteen year-olds often do, and ends up chasing a dog from one end of town to the other.

 

The dog is a rare kind of breed— the sort with thick, soft curls and floppy ears and a huge, friendly dog-grin. Viktor doesn’t mean to go after it. But the next thing he knows, he’s running blindly through the darkness, familiar streets draped in the colors of night flashing past him and a bright, brown thing hurtling along in front.

 

They go around in circles, until eventually the dog skids to a stop in front of a painfully familiar-looking jut in the wall, and Viktor realizes they’ve come back to the hideout.

 

“You’ve been here before?” He asks between quick breaths, brushing a swathe of hair away from his sweat-soaked forehead.

 

The dog barks happily, in what he assumes is assent.

 

Viktor pulls the tattered cloth aside and steps inside. “Well, come on in.”

 

“Yuuri,” he calls, “I’ve brought a friend!”

 

Said friend offers a hearty greeting.

 

“Yuuuuuuri.”

 

“Yuuri!”

 

“...Yuuri?”

 

//

 

It is no surprise that something goes wrong really. The only surprise is that it happens so fast.

 

Blink. Yuuri, midnight-dark hair flying in the wind. Blink. Yuuri, nose and ears pink from the cold. Blink. Yuuri, newsboy cap, dirt-colored trousers. The official tells him it was an accident.

 

The dog licks the tears off Viktor’s face. He names it Makkachin.

 

Viktor doesn't believe in anything anymore.

 

_III. the son of riches, the son of stars_

 

He is the heir to a legacy, this time.

 

He doesn’t have to count the loaves of bread tucked under his shirt anymore, or the number of days until the fruit seller falls asleep on the watch, but still he looks out the window and waits for the day a face, familiar like sunshine on his skin, appears.

 

“Is there nothing you want to do with your life?” Chris drawls. He dips his quill in the ink pot and scrawls his name in big, looping cursive across the parchment.

 

Viktor sighs. “Not particularly. There's someone I want to meet, though.” He eyes Chris’ artwork lazily. “That’s a sloppy C.”

 

With a flick of his wrist the C becomes a smudged, vaguely impressionistic mess. Chris pushes his round-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose and grins at him. “Where is this someone, then? Haven't you been waiting quite a while now?”

 

“I'll wait as long as it takes.” Viktor lowers his gaze, silver lashes fluttering over ocean-blue irises, and makes quick work of his calligraphy sheet.

 

“Didn't take you for the patient sort.”

 

Viktor flashes a grimace that lasts exactly a quarter of a second. “I'm not.”

 

//

 

When he finally turns eighteen, they hold a commemorative ball.

 

Suitors come in from far and wide to try and ‘win his heart’, bringing with them elaborate gifts and promises of wealthy futures, offspring. The rumors fly fast and furious; the young master of the Nikiforov household, dripping with delight and wonder, gemstones braided into his cascade of silver hair. He drinks from goblets of pure gold. When he smiles, the heavens tumble to his feet.

 

(Viktor cuts his hair short a week before the affair, out of a mix of irritation and a desire to escape the elaborate fabrications surrounding his existence, at least by a little.)

 

And so, the day of the event arrives.

 

Viktor scratches under Makkachin’s chin and gets a slobbery kiss on the cheek that feels more like a punch in reward.

 

“Do we really need to do this?” he asks, somehow managing to look majestic even with freshly-disheveled hair and half of his face wet with drool.

 

Yakov grunts.

 

“I'll take that as a yes.”

 

“Your parents would have wished for it to happen.” Yakov is never not grunting, never not grumpy. This is a widely-accepted fact.

 

With some reluctance, Viktor accepts his explanation.

 

When evening falls, he dons a white dress shirt, a sleek single-breasted black coat jacket and waistcoat underneath, and jet-black trousers that fall short just above the tops of his leather pumps. Not long after, the family’s servants flood the room, carrying combs and accessories and boisterous conversation. Without a word, he holds his arms out in front of him as they smooth out every nonexistent crease and crinkle in the expensive fabric. Someone readjusts the tie on his neck for the hundredth time. Another steps forward wielding an ivory comb, and carefully combs his hair to one side as best as he can. He fails, mostly, because it's all still falling over the left side of his face (Viktor silently rejoices), but at least a few strands are now curled up and away, creating the artistic impression of there being multiple layers underneath the mess.

 

Chris frets over the horrendous state of his face (no one’s going to want a man with only one eye, Viktor dear). Yakov thumps him on the back and tells him to _make an impression_ , as if he still needs to say anything else to prove his saint-like status. He thinks about cheek kisses as soft as rain, and feels almost lonely.

 

At seven p.m. sharp Viktor gets pushed out onto the second-floor landing, and as he looks out over the circular ballroom down below, he finds himself unconsciously looking for it— that familiar shock of midnight-dark hair, the telltale curve of a smile.

 

“Go out there, get a girl, or a boy, or whatever,” Yakov mutters irritably before sending him off.

 

Chris winks at him.

 

Viktor takes a deep breath, and begins his descent down the winding staircase.

 

//

 

Viktor announces (in his head), for the umpteenth time, that he does not like formal events. If he could do so aloud he would kill a man, probably. Unfortunately, he cannot, and so he takes to proclaiming it boldly to himself at every possible moment.

 

“I'm the daughter of a goldsmith. You're the son of a duke. Don't you think we'd make a perfect match?” A pretty young lady ventures, the high pile of her hair on her head bouncing along as she struggles to keep up with Viktor’s flighty dancing.

 

He's not usually this, ah, _inclined_ towards airborne movement. But the situation is dire— this is the fifth person to make such a proposal, and between the last swaggering, ebullient knight and haughty, wine-guzzling duchess Viktor has quite entirely run out of his personal store of _noble’s patience_. It calls for an immediate retreat.

 

 _No, I do not! In fact, talking to you is a chore in itself,_ Viktor thinks. “Perhaps,” he says vaguely, and offers a bland smile.

 

Just in time, the song changes, from a leisurely waltz to a quicker, livelier rondo. Without the slightest hesitation, Viktor bows to his partner and then sends her spinning along to the next person.

 

She makes one last valiant stand before disappearing into the fray. “Wait— you didn’t— what about my name?”

 

“I don't really care about you, to be frank!” Viktor laughs, loud and carefree, swept up by the capering beat of the music. Before she can say anything else, he twirls off into the crowd, exchanging one-word greetings and avoiding proffered hands and dances like the plague.

 

//

 

To the side, a young man in a stunning suit the color of night tips his sixteenth flute of champagne down his throat.

 

//

 

Chris finds him not long after, parading around with an empty glass in one hand.

 

He sends his partner, a young man with chocolate brown curls, off with a kiss, then drapes an arm over Viktor’s shoulder. “Found anyone?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you going to find anyone? I haven't seen you complete a dance with someone yet, tonight.”

 

Viktor makes a noncommittal noise.

 

Suddenly, there is silence. From the opposite side of the room, a figure appears, parting the crowd like an ocean-tide. As he moves nearer into the light, his face comes into sharper focus: hair as dark as night, slicked back to reveal a smooth forehead and thick brows, lips as red as roses. On his feet are gorgeous glass shoes, sparkling with the light of a thousand intricate diamonds.

 

The young man is beautiful like a natural disaster, breathtaking like a force of life, and no one can look away.

 

Viktor’s heart skips a beat. Several beats, actually. For a split-second, it forgets how to beat altogether.

 

_I've found you this time, too._

 

“Correction. Yes,” he declares, handing Chris the empty glass and striding decisively towards the center of the room.

 

//

 

The ballroom floor is a sea of stars, a shade of blue so brilliant one can't help but wonder if the night sky had been harmed in the process of making these engraved tiles glow. It’s even more beautiful with the pair dancing across it, their feet flying and bodies twisting to the four-beat rhythm like they were born to make magic happen.

 

A silvery laugh rings out through the cool night air, and the click of heels follows soon after. Tap, tap, tap.

 

“You are absolutely splendid,” Viktor, the owner of the silvery laugh, compliments, dipping his partner with practiced ease. “Who taught you to dance like this?” His eyes flash bright blue in the chandelier’s glow, alight with a scatter of glittering constellations.

 

The boy with glass shoes and soft brown eyes giggles. “No one. You're my first dance partner.”

 

Viktor hums in appreciation. “You're very good for a first-timer.”

 

The orchestral quartet, noting the shift in mood, had lapsed back into a light waltz a bit ago, and they've been swaying along to it in the stipulated, stringent style of ballroom dances thus far. But after the second or third movement, something changes. Viktor’s steps get faster and faster, and Yuuri’s turns take on a life of their own. Their movements become large and generous, sweeping arms like the wings of an eagle and bodies pressed close together.

 

This is no longer a ballroom dance, but a waltz as old as time. As old as turreted castles with stone walls, as boys with flower wreaths in their hair and futures prophesized by the dead, as curses and promises and vestiges of shadow and light.

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs, and it sounds like spring beginning anew. There are flowers blooming all around them. Yuuri is light on his feet like a swan, as if he had been born to grace the world with his bold, brazen beauty.

 

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “How d’you know my name?”

 

Viktor smiles wistfully.

 

“I'm a prince. Princes know things.”

 

“You're no prince,” Yuuri challenges, swaying slightly from side to side. Viktor keeps his hands firmly poised on his waist. “You're a noble. A damn beautiful one at that.”

 

“Beautiful, you say?”

 

“Your hair. It's the color of the moon.”

 

Viktor laughs, and it's like the world shatters at his feet.

 

//

 

He's made up his mind. He's not letting this go.

 

“Yuuri, I—”

 

The clock tower chimes, once, twice, thrice— twelve times.

 

Yuuri stops mid-kick. “Oops, it's time to go. May I have your name?” He reaches up and caresses Viktor’s face, a twist of muscle-memory, soft as snow.

 

“—it’s Viktor.” He's helpless. He's spinning. He's lost track of the years and his skin is on fire.

 

Yuuri’s hand lingers for a moment longer, but then he removes it, almost regretfully, pushing Viktor away and beginning to cut a path back through the crowd.

 

“Farewell, beautiful Viktor.” He turns once last time to face him, and there's that smile again, the almost-sad one, the one that makes Viktor think he knows what he's doing to him when really, really, it's probably just in his blood to look like a shooting star falling out of the sky.

 

“Wait!” Viktor chases after him, lunging desperately after Yuuri like he's the white rabbit and Viktor is Alice in Wonderland, running after a fever dream.

 

They make it out onto the first floor backyard, and Yuuri takes the stone steps two at a time. “Got to get back, got ta get back, before the magic wears off,” he's mumbling to himself, sounding panicky even through what must be a very thick haze of alcohol. As he descends, his clothes begin to change like some fancy trick of the night, the midnight-blue coat jacket thinning out into a black peacoat, the elaborate embroidery along its sleeves unraveling into non-existence.

 

It continues until the only thing left of his dramatic, eye-catching outfit is his shoes— still fragile, still sparkling, still made of glass.

 

“Please, promise you'll try to remember the next time!” Viktor yells. He is still in love, and tired, and so very, very in love. “Remember this— the ballroom and the champagne and me, please, remember me!”

 

Yuuri doesn't look back.

 

//

 

Even drunk off his ass, he does not leave behind a single glass shoe for Viktor.

 

 

  
_0\. once upon a time_

 

 _What do you think happens after people die?_ Viktor asks, looking small and lost, half-hidden in a canopy of leaves. The gold garland on his head gleams with moonlight.

 

The boy on the ground beneath him has his palms pressed flat against the tree trunk. His face is tilted skywards, eyes fixed on Viktor’s shadowy form. _Please come down and eat something_ , he says, worry masked with familiar exasperation. _You've been gone all day, haven't you? Yakov told me._

 

Viktor swings his legs over the side of the branch and kicks them in the air idly. _I won't come down if you don't answer my question_.

 

A pause, then—

 

 _I think you disappear,_ comes the quiet reply.

 

 _Well, that wouldn't be very fun now, would it?_ Viktor tuts, cattish smile playing across his lips.

 

 _I suppose not_ , the boy agrees absentmindedly.

 

Viktor claps his hands. _Everything is so very boring without you around._ _I'll have to find you._

 

The boy squints at him. _How are you going to do that?_

 

 _Please, I would recognize your soot-colored hair anywhere._ Loosening his grip on the branch, Viktor pushes himself off and makes a clean landing on the matted grass. He glides forward, cradles the boy’s face gently in his hands, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

_You got that, Yuuri? Even if I’m not a prince anymore, and you're not the son of some noble anymore, and my father’s kingdom disappears, I'll snatch your heart away for sure._

 

_I'll find you no matter what, and we’ll be together again, for the next time, and the next, and the next._

 

Yuuri is thirteen and thinking about tonight’s dinner and vaguely unimpressed, but he doesn't resist when Viktor takes his hand and brushes his lips across his knuckles. He smiles.

 

_It's a promise._

 

 

  
_IV. the one who lived too late and the one who lived too little_

 

In the next life Viktor wants to be a skater. But an injury with permanent damage cuts his career dream short, and he ends up majoring in history instead.

 

He moves to America after he graduates, and lands a job as a lecturer through a jackpot combination of talent, charm, and wit.

 

Post-war America is lively. Here, the people dress like bigger, louder versions of themselves, and the boys and girls alike flock to him at every chance opportunity. Viktor plays around, goes to bars and parties at night, and talks to slack-jawed youths in the daytime.

 

It’s fun, he thinks. It’s fun, probably. But after a while the novelty of colorful banners and screeching guitar-tracks wears off, and even the part where he pretends he’s interested in every person that asks him out becomes nothing more than simple routine, a part of his daily life.

 

He still goes out at night, of course. His studio apartment is small and soft and too-quiet at times, even with the calming presence of his poodle, Makkachin, around. So he goes out, he drinks a little too much, he comes into class with a pounding headache the next morning and no one questions it because he still teaches fine, so what if his shirt collar is unbuttoned and his hair is a disheveled mess? He looks hot with glasses. It’s fine.

 

The weeks blend together into months, and eventually the months string themselves into years, stacking up on him like student assignments and theses on the Industrial Revolution and the great Southeast Asian dispute of the century. Viktor’s life becomes a flatline, factory production conveyor belt running in circles endlessly.

 

One day, one of the senior professors sends him down to the storage room to look for old documents.

 

“I’m getting old too, you know,” Viktor complains amicably, chuckling when Yakov throws a crumpled paper ball at him and barely misses.

 

“You’re twenty-nine, you doofus. You’ve got a whole lifetime left to live.”

 

Viktor bends over to pick up the paper projectile and chucks it in the bin behind him without looking. “Several, actually,” he replies cheerfully.

 

Yakov glowers at him. From the other side of the room, Mila lets slip a (purely unintentional) snort.

 

“Get out, get going, get lost.”

 

“It’s my pleasure to.”

 

//

 

Yakov probably did not mean to curse him with those ominous parting words, Viktor reasons.

 

No, it shouldn’t even be something worth considering, in fact! Feltsman is no witch with magic powers. He’s just old, and grumpy, and occasionally kind.

 

But, as he turns the same corner for the fifth time in the last half-hour, Viktor begins to accept that he might genuinely be lost. He looks up past the towering row of dusty shelves to the cracked ceiling far up above, squinting at the lone light fixture hanging from it by a rusted metal hook.

 

“This place must be haunted,” he announces, his voice echoing down the length of the deserted room.

 

The light flickers in reply.

 

The thing is, he’s already obtained the documents he’d been sent down to retrieve. They’ve been long since been shuffled and reshuffled and stuffed inside his satchel. The exit stubbornly eludes him, is all.

 

Or maybe he’s growing old. Viktor pushes his glasses up, clears his throat, and continues around the bend. He could’ve sworn the creaky wooden door had been right up by the shelf with all the records of 1940s research papers, but when he’d gone back earlier to check it had become an exhibition site for medical records from the last decade. It almost feels as though the room is a living thing in itself, constantly shifting, breathing, growing.

 

Eventually, he gives up on trying to find a way out, and settles on waiting for help. Surely they wouldn’t leave a precious faculty member to waste away in the pits of record hell, would they?

 

Viktor is optimistic.

 

//

 

Waiting around gets boring after a while, however. He may be twenty-nine now, but the man still has the attention span of a four year-old. Fifteen minutes into his self-inflicted Isolation Time, Viktor leaves his belongings in a pile and goes off exploring again.

 

The storage room is honestly so big, it’s ridiculous. It’s a cavernous thing, with high, vaulted ceilings and shelves that loom like giants over him. It shouldn’t even be called a storage room, really. The Cave Of Scholarly Treasures would be a far more appropriate name.

 

Viktor is making his way through an assortment of reports on depression and its debilitating side-effects, when something bright catches his eye. He turns on his heel, curiosity propelling him towards a shelf two rows down, where a bold, forget-me-not blue binder sits tucked between two rotting record books.

 

Wiggling it out of the cramped space, he brushes a hand over the thin layer of dust on the cover.

 

_April 1973_

_Katsuki, Yuuri_

_#4.5_

 

The realization is instantaneous, and hits him like a punch in the gut. Katsuki, Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. _Yuuri._

 

How could he have forgotten?

 

“Yuuri.” He tries the word out on his tongue, and it’s like the childhood he never had, like a warm chocolate brownie, melting on his tongue, like a freshly-picked strawberry’s flavor explosion, only it all happens in his head.

 

Viktor feels the years fall away from him, layers peeling back to reveal all the previous Viktors living under his skin. Here, the one with the tattered coat and bruised hands. Here, the one with the paper smile and empty eyes. Here, the one with the gemstone engravings and dollar-sign teeth.

 

It’s been so terribly, frightfully long.

 

He turns the page.

 

//

 

_April 25th_

 

_In this dream there is a boy with moonlight hair, and eyes like oceans. He breathes prayers like air and lives in a paper house with paper flames._

 

 _He tells me_ I love you _like he says the sky is blue. (Just to clarify, the sky is blue). He seems to like the sky a lot, and me some more. I cannot remember his name, though I would like to._

 

_There is a strange, hobbling old man, too. He never shows up in clear view, but rather hides behind pillars and columns and walls, always watching, always observing. We are afraid of him, I think._

 

_When I touch this boy it feels like galaxies being born anew, springing to life from my fingertips, bursting free under my eyelids._

 

Three hundred years, five lifetimes, a treasury of tears.

 

_But there is a mantra, and it won't go away. It makes my head hurt, almost as though my mind is unconsciously trying to remember—_

 

“Viktor?”

 

He jumps. The binder snaps shut and slips out of his grip.

 

“Viktor? Are you all right? You're crying.”

 

He glances up, and there is Minako, the head of the dance department, peering at him with worry clouding her expression.

 

Viktor brings a hand up to his face and finds it wet with tears. “Oh, I'm sorry, I’m— this is—”

 

Minako kneels down on the floor and retrieves the fallen binder. When she scans the words on the front cover, her eyes go soft. “It's fine,” she says.

 

Still sniffling faintly, Viktor removes his glasses so he can swipe the sleeve of his coat across his eyes.

 

“Yuuri was a good kid. One of the most hardworking among all the undergraduates, with pretty black hair and brown eyes. He dozed off in class from time to time, fooled around like your average college student, but never submitted an assignment late.” Minako’s voice is nostalgic, colored with fondness.

 

“We lost him to an accident. They were coming back from a party, if I recall correctly. He was drunk— they all were. Couldn't blame anyone when Yuuri was the only one that didn't make it.”

 

Viktor lowers his gaze, stares at his feet. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

 

“Don't be.” Minako puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Anyway, this binder— he started having weird dreams right around before he died, so he figured writing them down and leaving some kind of record behind would be good. For research purposes or something, y’know? We couldn't really find a place to classify them afterwards, so we just shelved them where we found space.”

 

“He sounds like a nice person,” Viktor chuckles.

 

“I think you two would've gotten along! You would’ve been around the same age if he were still alive today.”

 

“I wish I could’ve met him.” _This time_ , Viktor doesn't add. _I wish I could've met him this time, too._

 

“Do you need a moment?” Minako asks, after another minute or so has ticked by.

 

Viktor shakes his head. He gives the blue binder one last, longing look, then turns and follows Minako back upstairs.

 

 

  
  
_V. the fallen angel and the man with wings_

 

“Hi, I’m a size nine?”

 

The newcomer is shorter than him, sporting thick, round-rimmed glasses and a  friendly smile. He's older this time, with lines etched into his face and a shine to his eyes that speaks of decades of experience, but Viktor would recognize him anywhere— in life, in death, in pitch-black darkness, even in overlapping folds of time like tsunami waves.

 

Viktor looks up so fast he thinks he hears the back of his neck crack. “Oh, yeah! Sure. Hold on.”

 

He takes the proffered sneakers, ducks back into the aisle, and returns with a pair of clunky rental skates, which he sets on the counter.

 

“We’re closing in half an hour,” Viktor adds pleasantly.

 

“That's fine.” The man laces up his skates with fluid familiarity, and heads for the side of the rink.

 

It's Monday evening— not exactly their busiest time— so it's not particularly surprising that there's not a soul on the ice today. The last couple had left some fifteen minutes ago, complaining loudly about sore feet, and snatched away all the sound with them. Before that, there’d only been a handful of stragglers, going on and off and about at whim.

 

Rather, it's more surprising to Viktor that someone would choose to come in _now_ , with neither a partner nor the intent to maximize the full two hours the fifteen dollar skating passes here offer.

 

The fact that he looks so familiar it hurts is no big deal. No big deal at all.

 

Figuring that there likely won't be any more customers coming in, Viktor switches off the lights behind the skate rental booth and steps outside. He heads out to the first floor of the viewing gallery and rests his elbows on the ledge, cradling his face between his hands.

 

Down below, the man is moving in leisurely circles, his movements weighted with age but still steady and firm. He drifts along on one skate, then switches to the other; does a backward crossover or two, then some easy footwork.

 

Viktor is impressed. But more than that, he is (still, still, still) in love.

 

“What's your name?” He calls out, more for courtesy’s sake than anything.

 

The man doesn't stop, lets himself glide while he calls over his shoulder, “Yuuri.”

 

Viktor thinks he’ll never get tired of hearing it. “It's a beautiful name,” he says.

 

“Not quite as beautiful as you, mister…?”

 

“Viktor, it's Viktor.”

 

“Well, Viktor.” Yuuri changes course, begins skating backwards so he can maintain eye-contact while they talk. “You have beautiful hair. It reminds me of the moon.”

 

Viktor’s heart clenches.  “Thank you.”

 

And then, because he cannot allow the conversation to taper off like that, “you skate pretty well.”

 

Yuuri laughs. “For an old man, you mean.”

 

Viktor gasps dramatically. “What old man? You look fine to me.”

 

Yuuri launches himself into a camel spin that lasts for all of five seconds. “I'm thirty-five.”

 

“Why, that makes me your senior! But never mind age, you skate better than half the visitors we get here.”

 

Yuuri looks up, fixates on Viktor with a wistful smile.

 

“I used to be a competitive figure skater, you know.”

 

They talk well past closing time, until most of the shops in the mall have closed, and the two are huddled together for warmth by the edge of the skating rink.

 

//

 

Yuuri comes again on Tuesday.

 

He skates old competition programs as far as he can before his strength gives, and Viktor watches from the sidelines, cheering at both appropriate and inappropriate times. In the quiet sanctity of the rink there is nothing but the scrape of blades on ice, the gentle hum of cold air, the whisper of movement around them.

 

Viktor has never felt more at peace.

 

When Yuuri tires of gallivanting around the ice like a five year-old, as he likes to put it, they get drinks from the strategically located vending machine by the skates rental counter, and chat between sips of hot coffee.

 

Talking to Yuuri has always been easy, Viktor knows, but there is something about being alone in the flush of evening, hidden behind the looming spectator stands, that gives all their conversations a strange, dreamlike quality. It means he thinks more than he should. It means he is softer than he ever lets himself be. It means his mouth is looser than it should be.

 

Because, see, even here Viktor is just the man with the ice skates and the big, big poodle. The neighbor with the pretty face and the polite smile. The co-worker with the skills to make it big but no more time left for himself.

 

So he talks, and Yuuri listens, and it's like they're kids again, hiding from the sparring instructor in the Great Forest, complaining about the weight of the gold wreaths on their heads and their diamond-studded armbands digging into their skin.

 

It's nice.

 

//

 

On Wednesday, Viktor switches out his black Nikes for his own ice skates, and joins Yuuri on the ice.

 

He shows off a bit, does a flying sit spin and a triple axel (that he barely lands, much to his chagrin), and Yuuri is blown away. Viktor skates back towards him after the near-failure of a double flip fiasco, and Yuuri grips him by the forearms so hard he feels his nails digging in through the thick fabric of his jacket.

 

There are stars in his eyes.

 

“Teach me,” Yuuri says.

 

“Don't you already—”

 

“I've forgotten. I've forgotten everything. And, see, I lost something of my love for the ice, haven't been able to find it for decades, but then you came along, like some large, fiery sunburst, and I think— I think I can learn to love skating again.”

 

And maybe being on the ice is like being on top of the world, because all the blood rushes to Viktor’s head, and his body suddenly feels hot air balloon-light, and his heart feels like it’s on fire.

 

“I'll share what I remember,” he promises.

 

//

 

In another life, perhaps Viktor would have been a coach, and Yuuri his star pupil. In another life, maybe they win the Nationals, and Worlds, and each other, forever.

 

In this one, Yuuri rubs bashfully at the back of his neck and tries to pretend his knees aren't giving him as much trouble as they really are. In this one, Viktor wraps him in a hug when they're done and squeezes him tight and tells him, _you've done great._

 

And he has, really, he's been keeping up and pressing on where Viktor would have lay down on the ice half an hour ago. He's hiding his bruises, but Viktor can picture every single one— the dark purple stain on his left knee, the blossoming blue ink blot on the jut of his hip, the faint red coloring on both his elbows.

 

On the fourth day, Yuuri arrives earlier than usual. They skate until both men are breathless and sweating hard and heavy, then retire to the benches at the side with their now routine coffees and jackets zipped up to the collars.

 

“Would you like to hear a story?” Yuuri starts out of the smoky blue, voice clear and bell-like, ringing across the empty rink.

 

Viktor raises his eyebrows. “Sure.”

 

“Once upon a time, there were two boys who lived in a castle on a cliff. One was the crown prince, and the other, the son of the king’s trusted advisor. They did everything together.”

 

Viktor examines his skates. “Sounds like a fairytale.”

 

“It's not one you know, I promise.”

 

Yuuri sucks in a deep breath.

 

“But there was a crooked man who hated the king. He didn't like seeing the king’s son so happy. It made him terribly, terribly mad.

 

So he came up with a plan, tricked the two boys out into the Great Forest, and performed a ritual. A curse was set in place. They would have three hundred years of unrest, five lifetimes with little peace.

 

And one boy would forget, every single time, while the other would remember everything, forever haunted by his past failures.”

 

“That's such an ominous fairytale,” Viktor cuts in with a short laugh. “Are you sure this is family-friendly?”

 

“Shhh.” Yuuri holds a finger up to Viktor’s lips, touch feather-light and teasing.

 

“So the story goes. But what happened after the fifth life? Do you think they met again? Did the other boy remember everything? The two were soulmates, you know.”

 

Viktor looks out over the smooth, unmarred ice. “So, not a fairytale, but a love story.”

 

Yuuri smiles mysteriously.

 

“It could always be both.”

 

“Perhaps,” Viktor muses aloud. Yuuri doesn’t stop smiling.

 

And then the smile is falling away from his lips because Viktor kisses him there and then, amidst the dancing specters of cold, with a story he knows like the back of his hand like fresh blood on Yuuri’s lips. Viktor kisses soft and sweet and bitter like dark chocolate, threads his hands through Yuuri’s hair and sighs into his mouth when Yuuri’s hands slide up his chest and come to rest around his neck.

 

It feels like home.

 

“You don't know how long I've wanted to do that,” Viktor groans when they pull apart, dropping his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder.

 

Yuuri rests his chin on his head. “For a week?”

 

“Centuries, actually.”

 

Yuuri goes silent.

 

“Can you wait another century?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

//

 

Yuuri drops by the rink on Friday morning, but Viktor is trapped between a mass of prepubescent teens all eager to get their skates, too busy to go out and meet him alone.

 

It seems Yuuri knows that.

 

“Thank you,” he mouths across the room, like _I'm sorry_ , like _goodbye_. He takes one last look around the establishment, gaze lingering on the open ice peeking out from the side of the rink.

 

Viktor watches him go, and feels the puncture-wound in his chest ache like it happened yesterday.

 

 

  
_0\. in a kingdom far, far away_

 

_What do you want to be in your next life, Yuuri?_

 

_I dunno. An alligator, maybe. The moat looks comfortable._

 

_...you’re terrible. No fun at all._

 

_Well then, what do you want to be, Viktor?_

 

_I want to be me again, and meet you._

 

_But what if you don't remember me? What if I forget about you?_

 

_I'll wait, silly. I'm the most patient of all my siblings. I'll wait for you._

 

_Why?_

 

_Because you're worth it. I'd wait forever if I had to. You're worth it._

 

 

  
_VI. the living legend and the ace_

 

In the next life Viktor is king again, only of a different sort.

 

This time there is no debilitating illness, no back-breaking injury, no great fall from a high, high point. He wins the World Grand Prix five times in a row. His crown gleams brighter than ever before.

 

So he is king. But he is a lonely king.

 

//

 

At the post-Grand Prix Final banquet Viktor sticks to the side of the room, nursing a glass of champagne and a plastic smile. He makes brief conversation with anyone who approaches him, and politely turns down any offers to dance. In his periphery, the world’s elite skaters dip in and out of view, dressed in elegant suits and flowing dresses that would tear a hole through any average person’s wallet.

 

As the night drags on at a snail’s place, his attention begins to wander. The velvet carpet laid out on the floor becomes a bed of ruby-red roses, the music morphing into a medieval ballroom’s choice orchestral accompaniment.

 

Amidst the pleasant buzz, a figure appears, parting the crowd like an ocean-tide.

 

And Viktor figures his imagination must have taken the highway up to cloud cuckoo-land, because there's only one person in the world with midnight-dark hair, soft brown eyes, a face as lovely as this. This is nostalgia that cuts bone-deep, permeating his very existence and knocking on the shuttered windows of his soul.

 

But even in his haze of self-doubt and incredulousness Viktor’s body moves before his mind does, feet taking him slowly, but surely, towards the center of the banquet hall.

 

Yuuri meets him halfway there.

 

They stare at each other for the longest, longest time, hands rigid at their sides and faces tinged the faintest shade of pink. Viktor thinks, _I must be dreaming._

 

Then Yuuri speaks, a flustered, courteous mess of jumbled English.

 

“I'm sorry, forgive me if I'm wrong, but— have we met before somewhere?”

 

Viktor sees sparks.

 

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

 

He steps forward, barely breathing, still hesitating. “May I?” His hands hover just inches from Yuuri’s face.

 

Yuuri’s eyes are soft and sparkling, like soda bubbles. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

 

Viktor presses his palms to his face gently, as if he is something fragile and glass-like, easily breakable; Yuuri turns into his touch like it is the most natural thing in the world.

 

“Viktor,” he says, and it's a prayer, a psalm. In this heartbeat of time Viktor is born again. He is light. He is love.

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeats, so softly it's like a breath of spring air. It's a love song. Viktor could listen to it on repeat forever.

 

“Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri kisses him, and it's the sweetest thing in the world, in any world, it's free-falling and knowing you won't hit the ground, it's a roller coaster without the stomach aches and the awful dizziness and the drop.

 

“Yuuri,” he mouths against his lips, and suddenly he's crying, _Yuuri’s_ crying, they're both crying, big, fat tears sliding down their cheeks and staining their crisp, immaculate suits, but who cares, no one cares, all Viktor can think and see and breathe is _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri_ , he doesn't want to be anything else.

 

It's a mantra, grounding him, keeping him afloat.

 

_Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri._

 

_You are the blue in the sky, the green of leaves, the white of purest snow._

 

_You are here, and I am whole again._

 

_//_

 

They found each other, you know?

 

Seven billion people in the world, five lifetimes, an oracle’s twisted foresight, and yet the boy with the glass heart and the boy with the glass smile,

 

they found each other.

 

_0. there were two boys._

 

_One was the crown prince, and his name was Viktor._

 

_The other was the son of the king’s advisor, and his name was Yuuri._

 

_Along the way there was a dour, crooked man, a promise, and a curse. The fates decreed that Yuuri would not remember, and Viktor would never forget._

 

_But five lifetimes passed, and on the sixth, when Yuuri emerged from the darkness, Viktor was there to meet him where he was. The curse was broken._

 

_And they stayed by each other’s sides, together until the end of time._

 

_0\. the lovers_

 

When Viktor wakes up in the morning, Yuuri is still fast asleep beside him. He brushes a hand along the side of his face, careful not to wake him.

 

A minute later, Yuuri’s eyes blink open.

 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Viktor greets, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose.

 

“Mmm.” Yuuri returns the gesture with a kiss on his lips, sleep-soft and gentle as rain.

 

“What’s the schedule for today?”

 

Yuuri grumbles incoherently, burrows his face into Viktor’s neck. “Training, training, and training. Might die.”

 

“You won’t, love. I believe in you.” Viktor laughs. “Or if you do, I’ll just have to follow you into the next life. Again." He can feel Yuuri smiling into his neck.

 

“Again,” Yuuri affirms. “A terrible, never-ending love story.”

 

Viktor kisses the top of his head.

 

“My favorite story.”

**Author's Note:**

> SO YEA I WROTE THIS INTO THE NEW YEAR FUCK LMAO  
> (edit: the title is a reference to the song of achilles (a damn good book), and was summarized into a proper title kind of thing by the lovely @fereldens on twitter, thank ya)  
> uh. what was it again.  
> thank you for reading!! if you liked the thing consider giving it a kudo or a comment or don't, whatever floats your boat, flaps your jack, i'm good.  
> you can haunt my ass on twitter @ nikiforcvs
> 
> have a good one, take care, may 2017 treat you kindly


End file.
